tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-354236522024-03-13T17:28:19.270+13:00Coffee FlittersA travel journal meets a diary of reflection after both have had a few too many drinks on a rainy Thursday afternoon.Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15796750753229100085noreply@blogger.comBlogger164125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35423652.post-67854351484030521052015-08-24T03:07:00.003+12:002015-08-24T03:07:28.770+12:00Bandidos! <div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Playa. Por la noche!? Es no bueno.”, says el hombre on a bicycle after we ask where to find the path to the beach. We just got off the bus from San Jose. In our backpack are the beach essentials in order of importance: beer, tequila, camera, towels. Kicking back on the beach has been priority numero uno since we landed. But now . . . Now we’re not so sure. </span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-494dc7dd-5b19-6ced-a060-5acaf36aeb7d" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“We must have walked past the path,” I tell Sarah, who is trying to glean more details on why the beach at night is such a bad idea. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Es la playa más peligrosa por la noche?” she asks, translating for me (“I asked him if it’s dangerous to go to the beach at night.”)</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Ah,” I say, and decide to chime in. I mean, I’ve watched Univision since I was a kid. I can Spanglish my way around a conversation. I turn to the man, who is now following us in a slightly creepy way and begin to “help”. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Por que? Como te llamas? Donde esta el mal hombre? Ou est la plage? Me llamo James” Sarah asks me what I’m doing, and I shrug my shoulders. Something in there must have made sense. In fact, I’m pretty sure I threw in some French. Call it the whack-a-mole approach to speaking a foreign language. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">El hombre gives me a look that is usually reserved for watching drunk people: A sort of sad, but sympathetic glare. He thinks for a minute, and then gently tugs at my backpack as though to show me what could happen. “Ver? Ver?”, he says, his extremely white teeth catching glints off my headlamp as I return the gaze he gave me a moment ago. So, I’m thinking, if I go to the beach at night, very weak people will try to undress me?</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Oh, people will try to rob us.” Sarah says, and my eyes light up with sudden comprehension. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Bandidos!” I exclaim. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m not sure if it was the word itself or the fervor with which I shouted it, but something made our friend erupt with laughter. Meanwhile, we’re still walking back down the dark road to our room. He had asked us a few times where we were staying, but we pretend to forget the name. Up until this moment, we were very sure we were about to get mugged. Two gringos walking down a dark road in a foreign country with backpacks asking for directions to the beach. Good thinking. How about I just wear a shirt that says “ATM. Free Cash”. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But something about the mood changes after he starts laughing. He keeps repeating the word, “bandidos! Ci, ci!” and chuckles more each time he says it. By now, he’s got us giggling, and Sarah shoots me a “let’s make a break for it” look, at which point his phone rings, and he stops in the road. Sarah and I duck into the nearest establishment (AKA, the strangest Italian restaurant you’ve ever seen--more on that later). When we look back down the road, it’s empty. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Bandido?” Sarah asks. “Where’d you come up with that?” </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Univision.” I answer. </span></div>
Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15796750753229100085noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35423652.post-7712337623043470292012-07-06T16:52:00.002+12:002012-07-06T16:52:50.616+12:00Summertime"I asked one of the tribal elders when I was born, and he said, 'in the summertime.'" --Crocodile Dundee<br />
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And this is what it feels like: as though winter, or any whiff of a cool breeze, is little more than a memory or a wish. And still, I'm sure Australians would laugh at me for complaining about the heat. It's only 90 degrees at night, after all.<br />
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I'm sitting on my little green couch, sipping a cold Budweiser from a case that was meant for Sarah's birthday picnic this coming Saturday. I don't usually drink Budweiser, but when I do, it's because I'm too lazy to walk down to the liquor store and buy real beer. I'm on my fourth, for the record, and Ken Burns' "America" plays on TV while I type.<br />
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The heat plus the run of forest fires in Colorado has made running a bigger challenge than it usually is. With all the smoke from the burning, the news media is warning people that the air quality is abismal, stopping just short of telling us all to stop breathing. Yesterday, the 4th, the air was so bad we lost sight of the mountains. I had friends tell me it was like being back in Los Angeles. Still, I grab my water bottle, and drive into the hills to find a trail that isn't on fire.<br />
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Running, by nature, is a solitary sport. Even when out with a group, a runner soon retreats into his or her thoughts. That, or we slip in the ear buds and start trotting away to whatever Lady Gaga mix we've prepared for the morning. Yet every once-in-awhile, I'll get a text or an email, or some note of encouragement that makes me feel like I'm running not alone, but with all my friends and family.<br />
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For example, John (little bro) recently sent me a running-related present. It was so unexpected that I let it sit on my lounge table for three days before learning who it was from. Every day, I looked down at the deodorant-shaped object with trepidation. Was it one of those promotions from a website I signed up with? Was it something I ordered when I was drunk? Was it poison? (this last question I took seriously). But not until I found John on Facebook chat one morning did I find out the truth.<br />
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"Did you get the running lube I sent you?" He asked.<br />
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Of course I did. Thanks, little brother.<br />
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<br />Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15796750753229100085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35423652.post-32168230005891144112012-06-28T05:20:00.002+12:002012-06-28T05:25:19.914+12:002012 Colfax Marathon, pt 2The day before the race was cold and miserable, with rain and wind and just about everything else you don't want to run in. But by 4 am on race day (when I woke up), however, it was clear skies and warmer temperatures. It was shaping up to be a beautiful day.<br />
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My original race goal was to finish under 4 hours. I've been chasing that time ever since my first marathon back in 2000 when I finished at 4:08. Subsequent marathons have not been so kind, often seeing me finish well after 5 hours. But those past races, I thought, were run with little training. This time I was well prepared.<br />
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As I lined up with the other runners at my speed, I sipped the last drops out of my bottle. "If I can hydrate early," I thought, "then maybe I won't lose everything half way through." The gun went off, and I tossed my empty bottle of Hot Squirrel into the trash bin as I trotted over the starting line.<br />
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Mile 2 saw me at 21 minutes, which is about where I wanted to be: 10.5 minute miles; taking it slow and warming up. I stopped at the port-o-let to relieve myself. "Excellent--kidneys are working and I'm processing my water." It was as valid concern. If I couldn't pee it meant my body wasn't doing anything with the liquids. Actually, this was pretty much my only concern.<br />
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Between mile 2 and mile 10 I was cranking out sub 9-minute miles and feeling fantastic. Sarah met me at the 10-mile mark to take my warm-weather clothing and give me a huge emotional boost. (Thanks, Sarah!)<br />
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The next 7 miles were all uphill, and I was feeling the ache by mile 18, when the course finally changed to a long descent. I stopped again, thankfully, at a bathroom, for a much-needed break. Then it was downhill all along Colfax, into the football stadium, and back along Cherry Creek heading towards downtown Denver. And I was thirsty the entire way.<br />
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I felt desperate for fluids, and at each aid station (placed 2 miles apart), I guzzled down cups of water and sports drink. Each mile got a bit slower: 9:30 pace . . . 10:15 pace . . . and when I met the volunteers at mile 22 it happened. I bonked. I was out. I couldn't keep running. Hell, I could barely move forward. I felt like I was wearing shoes filled with sand, and my vision wobbled. The horizon before me seemed to sway as though I were on a boat. There were 4 miles left. I had run for 3 hours and 40 minutes. If I could run a 10 minute-mile to the end, I'd meet my goal.<br />
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Those last four miles would take over an hour.<br />
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As I walked, hobbled, stopped, collapsed, and walked along the now-sunny streets of Denver, I had two thoughts repeat in my head: keep moving forward, and don't puke! I would do both, but the latter only until I crossed the finish line at 4 hours and 45 minutes. Sarah met me there and helped me from one shady tree to the next where I exuberantly expelled the contents of my stomach. Just like my training runs, my body seemed to have stopped processing liquids, instead deciding it was a good idea to just keep them in my belly--you know, for later.<br />
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But that didn't stop me from drinking my victory beer. No matter that I got to see that victory beer again very soon after.Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15796750753229100085noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35423652.post-78683387462166233632012-06-09T08:30:00.001+12:002012-06-09T08:30:45.218+12:002012 Colfax Marathon, pt 1Training for the Colfax Marathon had been going well. I had increased my distance regularly in the weeks leading up to it, even knocking out a 20 mile run the week before. The only thing bugging me was how, on my longer runs, my stomach would revolt. Violently.<br />
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Now, before I get into the messy details, let me remind you that this marathon is serving as little more than a training run for my first ultra marathon, the <a href="http://www.leadvilleraceseries.com/page/show/312299-silver-rush-50-run" target="_blank">Silver Rush 50 Mile Trail Run</a>. (good god--even typing it makes me nervous) My thought is that if I can just keep upping my distance, mile by mile, I'll be able to jog along at a slow pace and before you know it, have 50 miles under my belt. Well, my body thinks otherwise.<br />
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It only seems to happen when I run more than 12 miles at a time. I'll feel good--great, even--the first 8 miles. I'm taking in food and water and Gatorade (which I will now refer to as Hot Squirrel) all the while. But then the dizziness begins, and by the time I stop I'm weak and feeling nauseous. At this point I know what's coming. There's no stopping it. A little tickle begins at the back of my throat, and soon after everything I've consumed during the run comes out. Everything. That's the surprising part. It's like my body didn't even DO anything with all the water and Hot Squirrel I was downing. For the next three to four hours I spend my time moaning and trying to rehydrate, all the while my body is staging a mutiny.<br />
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So it was with the marathon.Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15796750753229100085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35423652.post-67954784214779253392009-10-05T07:25:00.004+13:002009-10-05T07:46:56.074+13:0032nd Birthday Activities<br /><p>I've decided to try updating Coffee Flitters more regularly, and with more mundane activities since they probably mean more to you than they do to me. What I mean is, I get a kick out of reading about your daily routine. Whether it be where you decided to go for brunch, to your new veggie garden, to the funny thing your wee one got up to. Such tiny moments that you may not think are worth noting mean the world to me, so I figured maybe the street went both ways: maybe those things that I don't take the time to note are things that might make you all giggle.</p><br /><p>Anyway, it's my birthday, so I'm going to go for a bike ride around the sea wall with Ami. I'll post another update with some pictures if I get around to it.</p>Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15796750753229100085noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35423652.post-53654682871333738872009-06-16T17:26:00.003+12:002009-06-16T17:42:07.183+12:00Oregon Trail, Interlude ::Pics Thus Far<br /><br /><p>This is turning into a bit of an epic, eh? Here's it's been nearly a month since we got back from Oregon, and I'm only getting to the first night! Ha! What a crazy thing, Love is.</p><br /><p>So instead of more tales of 'whoa,' I thought I'd post some of the photos we took of the trip up to where I've posted. Which is to say, Day One.</p><br /><br /><p><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lovezapp/OregonTrail#">Click here to view our photos (so far) on Picasa</a>.</p>Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15796750753229100085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35423652.post-49951122302303466302009-06-11T17:19:00.009+12:002009-06-11T18:12:38.047+12:00Oregon Trail, Pt. 3, Astoria and Beyond<br /><br /><a title="We stopped here for a little Truffle Shuffle" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XmXPvzI5BiE/SjCeXeGn-3I/AAAAAAAACN4/PZXDkqFLs0k/s1600-h/goonies-rocks.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XmXPvzI5BiE/SjCeXeGn-3I/AAAAAAAACN4/PZXDkqFLs0k/s400/goonies-rocks.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345946883743808370" /></a><br />For those of you who grew up in the 80s, you can probably guess by the photo where this is going. From the moment Ami and I drove into Astoria, I was haunted by nostalgia: I had seen this place before--or at least parts of it--although I had never been to Oregon, let alone Astoria. It wasn't until we had driven our van a few kilometers out of town, at a look-out point, that it all fell into place. <br /><br />Astoria was where The Goonies was filmed. <br /><br />If I had known how to back-flip, I would have done one. The Goonies! Of course! And for the next hour my long term memory high-jacked my short term and took it for a joy ride down memory lane. I quoted scenes and replayed actions sequences like I had just viewed the 'ol flick. We dubbed them "The Goonies Rocks." Partly because we didn't (yet) know what they were called, and partly because it was just plain fun.<br /><br />The rest of the trip was kinda boring after that. <br /><br />No, I'm kidding. This little hallelujah was a mere blip on the radar compared to the rest. <br /><br />That night we camped an a spit called Nehalem Bay, and it made me miss New Zealand. Here's why. When Americans go camping--and I'm generalizing here, but it's my blog, and I can bloody well do what I want--they tend to bring their homes with them. To the modern Yankee vagabond, the idea of pitching a tent is repulsive. And why would you want to when you can hitch up a mobile apartment to your Ford F350? I remember when I was younger and my family would go camping around the lakes in Kansas: these people were there then, too. While we were hauling arm loads of driftwood and kindling from the rocky beaches of Fall River Lake, there were a half-dozen "campers" lighting their gas grills and watching TV. It made us laugh then, but I think it took Ami by surprise. We couldn't walk 10 meters without her muttering, "Jesus Christ," or, "Holy God Almighty," or "Oh holy Jesus Fu"--well, you get the point. It was a religious experience. <br /><br />Since the campground at Nehalem Bay catered to RVs and trailers, the ground was mostly paved. Yet a short walk around the toilets and we were standing amongst dunes pocketed with marram grass and white sand, peering around dramatic cliffs toward the Pacific. Equipped with 40oz of Pabst Blue Ribbon ($2 each from the corner store!), we whiled away the evening singing country songs and snapping photos. For a moment, I forgot I was ever anyplace else.Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15796750753229100085noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35423652.post-69471349076576508222009-06-03T16:33:00.011+12:002009-06-04T02:54:44.634+12:00Oregon Trail, Pt. 2.5, The Lazy Post<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XmXPvzI5BiE/SiaK2ELXcoI/AAAAAAAACM8/F6WjG4ZS3z0/s1600-h/blue-house.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 338px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XmXPvzI5BiE/SiaK2ELXcoI/AAAAAAAACM8/F6WjG4ZS3z0/s400/blue-house.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343110669360657026" /></a><br /><br /><p>I just took a cold shower. And I mean just now, not in the context of the Oregon trip. I took a cold shower, cracked open a beer, and promptly chopped it like I was at a college kegger. It's been that kind of day. I'd love to tell you more about it, but I think I was talking about something else here. Where was I? Oh, yes: Astoria.</p><br /><p>Soon after driving over the Astoria-Megler bridge, I was haunted by a lingering deja-vu. It wriggled into my senses and hung there like a sneeze that can't decide whether to come or go. Was there something about the double-story homes: their proximity to each other, how they peered through the hill top pines? Or was it the angle of the street to the sea? I just couldn't put my finger on it. It was as though some distant memory was projecting the town against a screen like a slide show or a reel of dusty celluloid.</p><br /><p>I kept driving. Astoria was behind us in a matter of minutes, but the answer to the mystery still lay ahead.</p>Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15796750753229100085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35423652.post-20858911680051174152009-05-26T14:17:00.011+12:002009-05-26T15:19:46.608+12:00Oregon Trail Pt.2, The Reality<br /><br /><a title="the Astoria-Megler Bridge connecting Washington and Oregon" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XmXPvzI5BiE/ShteYj4teMI/AAAAAAAACME/FNn14kxA1fY/s1600-h/megler-bridge.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 303px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XmXPvzI5BiE/ShteYj4teMI/AAAAAAAACME/FNn14kxA1fY/s400/megler-bridge.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339965559220828354" /></a><br />In the Oregon Trail video game, the first thing you do is load your wagon. From what I recall, you need to ensure you buy plenty of essentials from the general store before embarking; things like axles, ammunition, and salted pork. You also need to buy a wagon and horses, the modern equivalent of which is renting a vehicle, which I did. But from the moment I went to pick up our car, I knew our Oregon Trip was going to be very different from the Oregon Trail. <br /><br />First of all, nobody died of dysentery (I credit our trusty first aid kit for this one. Not that I had to use it, mind you. The simple fact a first-aid kit is near is enough to keep dysentery at bay). Secondly, our car was not exactly what we reserved. <br /><br />We had booked the cheapest economy on the menu. On the website it shows a little Toyota Echo, but in fine print it says "or equivalent." This gives the rental company quite a wide berth, in my opinion, for what is the equivalent of an Echo? A golf cart? I mean, think about it: the very name of the car suggests it isn't so much a vehicle as the distant reverberations of a car that was. Luckily, they didn't have the tiny economy car we booked, nor did they have an equivalent. In fact, they didn't have anything save for a 7-seater Dodge mini-van. It was a 2009 model, so the back seats folded right into the floor. No muss, no fuss. <br /><br />I know some folks would have been miffed at the fact they booked a rice burner and got a guzzler instead. Not me. All I saw in that minivan was reprieve: the bigger the cargo space, the less I had to worry about packing "neatly." When I got the car home I was packed in record time, needing only to fold all the seats down, open the side door, and, in heaping armfuls, load the whole kit and caboodle. <br /><br />It was actually smooth sailing from then on. We didn't have any driving problems at all. Well, except at the US/Canada border where I was harassed for having avocados in the car. "You can't smuggle food into America," the guard said sternly. He didn't seem to agree with my assertions that, since the avocados were clearly labeled 'grown in California' I was technically just returning them. Oh well. We were down two avocados; at least we got to keep the pears (I implore someone to please explain this to me). <br /><br />After staying with friends in Seattle (Nick, Pete and little Harper), we were on the road to Oregon. Our plan was to take the back roads and ultimately camp on Oregon's northwestern coast. We picked a spot called Nehalem Bay, both for its proximity to the beach and its proximity to Portland. Getting to Nehalem took us out to the southwest corner or Washington state. There, we cross <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Astoria-Megler_Bridge">the world's longest truss bridge</a> and end up in Astoria, Oregon. <br /><br />But it was in Astoria that things got weird.Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15796750753229100085noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35423652.post-42742314105366457202009-05-21T14:51:00.005+12:002009-05-21T16:28:58.383+12:00Oregon Trail, Pt. 1: The Legend<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XmXPvzI5BiE/ShTWvhNwiSI/AAAAAAAACLc/b5R8TyvBlKk/s1600-h/Oregon2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 125px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XmXPvzI5BiE/ShTWvhNwiSI/AAAAAAAACLc/b5R8TyvBlKk/s200/Oregon2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338127570199152930" /></a><br />From the time we arrived in Vancouver folks have been telling us about the various must-sees of the area. Many pointed us to Stanley Park, while others took us out to some of the surrounding islands. Yet there is one place every Canadian agreed we had to visit: Oregon. <br /><br />For me, Oregon found a home in my psyche when I was ten-years-old by way of a black-and-white, 2D video game, "Oregon Trail." The game was a test of courage, a measure of one's boyhood, and a glorious waste of time. It was also one of 30 games in a rotation for the entire fifth grade to use during Computer Lab; that one hour each Tuesday and Thursday when our sticky, prepubescent fingers meddled with the bits and bytes of fortune. Or, as was most often the case, when our under developed hands cramped up from repeatedly keystroking "control + open-apple + escape" on large, plastic-covered Apple II keyboards. <br /><br />The games rotated every lab. Most of them, though, could hardly be called "games": disks with one single program meant to teach a skill: math, spelling, math, addition, subtraction, math. That's what I remember, anyway. I was always being handed 8-inch floppies with names like "Numbers and Grids", or "The Path for Math, Vol. 8." It's a wonder my math skills are so poor. <br /><br />So, 26 kids in my grade, and 30 floppy disks to get passed around. Our teacher, we soon realized, had a mind-bending rotation system that involved a blend of quantum mechanics, multiple alphabets, and alchemy. None of us were certain whose turn it was to play Oregon Trail, so the long walk from our classroom to the computer lab often involved hushed, although vigorous and somewhat questionable, bouts of bribery. This was between the boys, mostly; the girls didn't seem to care about Oregon Trail, and I truly believe it was this fact alone that was at the heart of the divorce between Michael McHart and Christy Berry some 15 years later. <br /><br />One only knew it was his or her our turn on the Trail when Mrs. Shaw delivered the floppy disk. Enveloped carefully in a green protective sleeve, the edges worn from hundreds of unfoldings, the disk descended as if by its own accord onto the table. I'm not sure Mrs. Shaw even set it down: rather, it floated from her freckled fingers as if magnetically drawn to the disk drive. <br /><br />Legend was, nobody had ever reached Oregon. Ever. Some said it was impossible. Others, that there was a glitch in the game, and the moment you reached the border, it would freeze up, and you would have to re-boot. But real reason nobody had finished Oregon Trail was simple: it was impossible to beat in one hour.<br /><br />Until one Spring afternoon when I did.Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15796750753229100085noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35423652.post-76503857462458888892009-05-01T05:33:00.003+12:002009-05-01T05:38:46.484+12:00You're a Paean, Design<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XmXPvzI5BiE/SfniBm4kfVI/AAAAAAAACKk/HXZnsYWnVqA/s1600-h/logo_lovezapp.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 154px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XmXPvzI5BiE/SfniBm4kfVI/AAAAAAAACKk/HXZnsYWnVqA/s200/logo_lovezapp.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330540151215258962" /></a><p>A few months ago, my good (dare I say "best") friend Phil sent me a website layout. Phil, you see, is good at just about everything he does. He's not necessarily what you'd call a "natural" (although he has plenty of talent), rather he simply can't stand the idea of being second best. When he decides to learn something (a sport, a game, a discipline), he doesn't rest until he's mastered it. While I tend to stop at "good enough", Phil continues. He hunts his pursuits: tracks their movements, understands their nuances; chases them until they're captured, killed, skinned. He wears his abilities like fur: they are necessary, and they are trophies.</p><br /><p>So when I need anything--even when I don't know exactly what I need--I will ask Phil because I know his passion won't allow him to respond until he's exhausted all avenues. I've asked him for website mockups before, and he's always delivered layouts beyond my expectations. Yet this particular design was different: I hadn't requested it. Phil had tinkered away at a new design for my own personal portfolio, and I'm using this platform to say "thank you."</p><br /><p>I've spend the past month building the code. During lunch hours, on weekends, and in between projects I've engineered his design. Electrifying the body, so to speak. So if you have a sec, <a href="http://www.lovezapp.com/">check out the new look at lovezapp.com</a> and tell me what you think. And don't be nice. Be honest to the point of being hurtful; it's the only way it'll learn.</p><br /><br />Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15796750753229100085noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35423652.post-9858172656733781322009-04-24T04:30:00.007+12:002009-04-24T04:37:07.046+12:00Having Friends Means Having Them Around<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XmXPvzI5BiE/SfCYXTOgt-I/AAAAAAAACJ0/Kdg8A_zJyLY/s1600-h/jamie-red-teesh.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XmXPvzI5BiE/SfCYXTOgt-I/AAAAAAAACJ0/Kdg8A_zJyLY/s200/jamie-red-teesh.JPG" border="0" alt="Jamie in a red t-shirt"id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327925885244848098" /></a><p>Spring is spranging in Vancouver, and Ami and I have been busy entertaining more guests. For those of you just tuning in, our apartment in Kitsilano has been a regular youth hostel--and we couldn't be happier. The most recent lodgers were a pair of Kiwi girls visiting from Scotland: Deb, an old friend of Ami, and Charlotte. Due to our work schedule, most of the time the girls made their own way, but we were there to provide maps, bus tickets, and vouchers for various local attractions. We really liked having them stay, and we can't wait until Deb returns in October.</p><br /><p>We also have more friends coming to stay this weekend. Jimmy K and Nicole were the other Kiwi couple who came to Vancouver to live, only to transplant to the far north for a more authentic Canadian experience (far north being Yellowknife, where the winter temperature is regularly between -20 and -40). I'm looking forward to hanging out with them this weekend. Even the most benign activity can go off the rails when we're with those two (see Darts post below). </p><br /><p>I promised to tell you all about our trip to Las Vegas, but I haven't got the photos up on <a href="http://picasaweb.google.ca/lovezapp">my Picasa album</a> yet. Notice I didnt' say Facebook. I deleted my Facebook account last month, so I'm using Picasa to share photos now--which is better because you don't need a Picasa account to see the photos I've posted. So yeah: Facebook is soooooo 2006; <a href="http://www.twine.com/">Twine</a> and <a href="http://www.twitter.com/">Twitter</a> are the new black.</p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XmXPvzI5BiE/SfCYdYUz-1I/AAAAAAAACJ8/tPhuB2HxaRc/s1600-h/girls-mountain.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XmXPvzI5BiE/SfCYdYUz-1I/AAAAAAAACJ8/tPhuB2HxaRc/s400/girls-mountain.JPG" border="0" alt="Deb, Ami, and Charlotte" title="Deb, Ami, and Charlotte enjoy lunch in the sun on Cypress Mountain"id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327925989692668754" /></a><br /><br />Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15796750753229100085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35423652.post-92184710359642937862009-03-19T16:43:00.005+13:002009-04-01T18:12:52.421+13:00One More Go on the Old Mountain<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XmXPvzI5BiE/SdL3XckgS5I/AAAAAAAACDQ/w5CDe422ZWI/s1600-h/DSC03167.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XmXPvzI5BiE/SdL3XckgS5I/AAAAAAAACDQ/w5CDe422ZWI/s320/DSC03167.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319586092056333202" /></a><br />One of the best parts of living in Vancouver is the easy access to snowboarding. Considering Cypress Mountain is only thirty minutes away, and also considering we paid for season passes to this very mountain, I'm a little disappointed we only went snowboarding a few days. So when a Spring blizzard blew through BC, we made our best effort to have one more go before the park closed. <br /><br />Snowboarding with Ami has always been a challenge. Her skill level far surpasses mine, and it's no wonder: she's been on either skis or a snowboard since she was seven. My Kansas childhood spent ice skating the frozen streets of East Wichita doesn't quite match her years on the snow. I've been chasing her since I strapped in to my first snowboard on Coronet Peak in 2004. Five years on, and I can follow her down the mountain just about anywhere. <br /><br />Spring is a breath away. I promise to boost my efforts on blog updates from here on. <br /><br />Check out <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lovezapp/Snowboarding?authkey=Gv1sRgCJO-xtLc_-OjyAE&feat=directlink">a few choice shots</a> of this season's snow activities.<br />Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15796750753229100085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35423652.post-29176482941719539002009-02-18T15:24:00.003+13:002009-02-18T15:33:42.205+13:00Darts with Tama, Jimmy K, Nicole, and Ami<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/4w_Tt9Rnywg&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/4w_Tt9Rnywg&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><p>We've recently hosted a few friends as they've wandered through our neck of the continent. After Christmas, Holly and Scot (Ami's sister and her husband) stayed with us for ten days. With them we tried to head up Cypress Mountain as much as possible, and even made a special trip to Whistler to get in even more snowboarding.</p><br /><p>Next was an ex colleague of Ami's, Anna Marie, and her friend Amanda. The pair have spent the last year seeing as much of Canada as they can. Coinciding with their trip as our friend Tama from Wellington, and during his stay two other Wellington pals: Jimmy K and Nicole. It was with these last three that we went out on Valentine's Day for a night of darts and drinking. It troubled us many times during the evening why people would provide us with first alcohol, and then sharp projectiles.</p><br /><p>The movie was inspired by Jimmy K, who also chose the song (Beastie Boys's "Sure Shot"). Enjoy. </p>Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15796750753229100085noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35423652.post-46030740781560741192008-12-31T08:33:00.003+13:002008-12-31T09:03:48.973+13:00Winter Wonderland<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/5LHnSDZQjqE&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/5LHnSDZQjqE&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br />Christmas 2008 was epic. And I mean epic in the true sense of the word, not like how snowboarders and ultimate frisbee players use it. The holiday kicked off on 14 December when my mother, father, and younger brother Peter flew in to Vancouver from Dunedin. Twenty-odd hours on a plane didn't seem to affect them because they were eager to partake in all the outings and sightseeing that I'd planned: shopping in Gastown and Chinatown, an evening at the botanical garden to see the light festival, strolls through Stanley park, a day at the aquarium, and snow shoeing on Cypress Mountain. In short, lots and lots of walking. <br /><br />While they were only visiting for a week, I managed to capture a few highlights before we all flew to Kansas. Enjoy.Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15796750753229100085noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35423652.post-4172256935260043432008-12-05T16:36:00.005+13:002008-12-05T17:17:05.801+13:00To Do, or Not to Do. That's Not Really a Question.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XmXPvzI5BiE/STiqacosxGI/AAAAAAAABwo/6GWF3IbbSlU/s1600-h/jellies.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XmXPvzI5BiE/STiqacosxGI/AAAAAAAABwo/6GWF3IbbSlU/s320/jellies.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276154334804755554" /></a><br />I really should be working. Not that it's anywhere near office hours, nor am I even in the office, but I should still be working. There is so much on my proverbial plate that I'm running out of room for all the proverbs. Usually, I'd have a good excuse to procrastinate, and that good excuse is named Ami. "Oh, Ami's home. I can't work on this website anymore;" or "Whoops, accidentally met Ami at a bar, guess I'll have to put off the laundry;" or "Ami! Let's dance!" <br /><br />However, I can't blame Ami because Ami is in New York. She flew out yesterday to surprise Holly and Scot who would have just arrived a few hours before her. They are on a long-overdue holiday and will be flying to Vancouver early next year to stay with us. The whole surprise operation was very Secret Squirrel. She told a few of her friends here in BC, but other than that it was hush-hush. It become increasingly difficult the closer she got to flying out, though. By the time she left for the airport I thought she was going to wet herself. Maybe she did for all I know. Hell, I did. <br /><br />But back to my predicament--I should be working. Instead of blaming Ami, or the fact that we were entertaining guests (we just had a fantastic week with Ty and Dharlia), I'm just going to have to face the fact that I would rather be goofing around. Not that the work is boring, mind you. It's not. I got a paid gig writing for a <a href="http://www.webdesignerdepot.com">web design blog</a> and I'm gathering more clients through <a href="http://www.taftmedia.net">my new freelance business</a>. There's a lot of good, solid work to be done. I just don't want to do it. <br /><br />So while Ami is in New York, I'll be updating you on what's been happening these past few weeks. Aren't you lucky. <br /><br />Not right now, though. I'd rather do something else.Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15796750753229100085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35423652.post-24653608989089505502008-11-12T16:13:00.007+13:002008-11-12T16:40:22.359+13:00Autumn Update<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XmXPvzI5BiE/SRpPfRBXOWI/AAAAAAAABvg/c7EJTXtrI7o/s1600-h/street.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 277px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XmXPvzI5BiE/SRpPfRBXOWI/AAAAAAAABvg/c7EJTXtrI7o/s320/street.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267610112726874466" /></a><br />Autumn is on its last leg in Vancouver. Everyone complains about the gray skies and dampness, but Ami and I have been enjoying it. Seriously. While others mumble and curse the frumpy weather, we smile at the fact the rain isn't coming in sideways. I'm in awe some days that our rain boots and umbrellas actually work. Unlike Wellington (or Limerick, or Wichita), you can go for a stroll in the rain and be confident that the only part of your body that will get wet is your feet (assuming you have an umbrella). <br /><br />I've also been making large pots of soup for dinner--tonight was chunky potato, and it was so good I danced around the kitchen. We'll kick our boots off in the hallway, sit down for hot soup or chili, enjoy a bottle of wine or a few beers (or both), and get cozy in our little attic apartment. <br /><br />Work is going well, too, although Ami's been pulling extra hours lately. She worked today (a holiday) and helped out at one of the stores on Sunday. She's tired when she gets home, but she'll be well compensated for it. Nood is giving her an extra day's holiday on 2 January, plus she'll be paid double for working on Sunday. Not bad. She also brought home a cool pot from Nood for all my soup-making needs. <br /><br />I'm finishing up my work with Trader. I've been building the CSS/HTML layouts for their new real estate site. It was supposed to end three months ago, but they've kept me on until mid December. To be honest, I'll be happy when it's over. I've also been working on a new project with my friend Phil. He's works as a writer, but the boy has a very good eye for design. He's designed--and I've built--a new website for our freelance hub, <a href="http://www.lovezapp.com/work/taft/taft.htm">Taft Media Design Group</a>. Have a look. Tell me if anything sucks. <br /><br />Winter may be long, wet, and cold, but with the number of friends and family members we'll be entertaining over the next few months, it'll be spring before we know it. <br /><br />We look forward to seeing you all.Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15796750753229100085noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35423652.post-32051179904496451122008-10-27T15:10:00.007+13:002008-10-30T16:33:47.738+13:00From Wichita to Denver<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_XmXPvzI5BiE/SQfmJtbprII/AAAAAAAABnU/DY2kS_p1-KQ/s576/DSC02179.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 376px; height: 232px;" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_XmXPvzI5BiE/SQfmJtbprII/AAAAAAAABnU/DY2kS_p1-KQ/s576/DSC02179.JPG" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />I only had one cryptic email from Drew telling me how to get to his house. Normally, I would ask for clarification; something simple, like directions, maybe. But this is Drew, and clarity does not become him. "Take a bus downtown and get a beer at 'The Hornet.' I will find you." <br /><br />This is Drew's way of asking me to stay with him for a couple of days. <br /><br />Slipping into my role as 21st century Odysseus, I took this as my call to adventure. I found the bus, found the bar, and ordered a couple of pints. Here, I waited. There were a couple of free papers in a news box outside, so I grabbed a copy of "The Onion" and giggled through the articles with my glasses of Guinness. <br /><br />One hour later and I hear sirens. In a large city, hearing sirens is unremarkable. But these sirens sounded like they were right outside the bar. I looked up to see an ambulance screech into the curb. Two men jump out and run inside the bar where I'm halfway through my third beer. It's all an act of observation until they rush over to me and grab me by the shoulders. "We got him! Go!" <br /><br />This is how Drew picks me up. <br /><br />I rode in the back of the ambulance (Drew's "office") for only 10 minutes, but it was long enough. When he dropped me off at his house off Lower Broadway I got to meet his girlfriend, Chrissy, and his friend, Dave. Both would be my accomplices in the revelry that would soon follow. <br /><br />More to come . . .Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15796750753229100085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35423652.post-79243777082561293562008-10-22T02:58:00.005+13:002008-10-30T16:30:24.112+13:00Wichita and the Suepers<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_XmXPvzI5BiE/SQfmHDnp2HI/AAAAAAAABm8/2zlxTkND060/s400/DSC02176.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 177px;" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_XmXPvzI5BiE/SQfmHDnp2HI/AAAAAAAABm8/2zlxTkND060/s400/DSC02176.JPG" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />I met Phil Sueper when I was ten years old. We started 3rd grade together and became immediate best friends. On July 15 2002, I boarded a flight to Ireland, telling Phil I'd see him "in about a year." Six years and seven countries later, I landed at Wichita Mid-Continent Airport. Phil was there to pick me up. <br /><br />The trip from my new home in Vancouver to Wichita was one made primarily to see my best friend. We didn't plan anything--no trips, no nights out, and no "welcome back" parties. We sat around his house surfing the net, grabbing coffees, and telling stories of success and stupidity. It was like no time had passed. <br /><br />I also got to experience Phil's gorgeous (and frighteningly intelligent) children. We played Wii sports, wee sports, hide-and-go-seek, and Trav's favorite game "where's Jamie's wallet?" This was way better than his other idea for a game: do passports float? <br /><br />I'm flying to Denver in a few minutes, but I wanted to say thanks to Phil and his lovely family for letting me stay for the week. See you in about a year, buddy.Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15796750753229100085noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35423652.post-14284029691581161442008-10-05T10:39:00.004+13:002008-10-05T11:14:52.495+13:00Thirty-One<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XmXPvzI5BiE/SOfqdRB5EqI/AAAAAAAABl4/HaEKUtgm-f4/s1600-h/j-ami-e.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XmXPvzI5BiE/SOfqdRB5EqI/AAAAAAAABl4/HaEKUtgm-f4/s320/j-ami-e.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5253425278859416226" /></a><br />On the first of October 1977, I was putting my mother and father (but mostly my mother) through tremendous agony. Thirty-one years later and not much has changed. <br /><br />To say my mother is timid would be like claiming Rambo is eloquent and precise. Her yearning for adventure and her nimble way around obstacles taught me a lot about value. Namely, that it's subjective. While I admire folks who can force their way to victory, obliterating confrontation, I tend to favor those who know when a fight just isn't worth it. So I would like to thank my mother for teaching me how to say "screw it." <br /><br />My father, on the other hand, couldn't be more different if he were a piece of furniture (for which he's been mistaken on more than one occasion). His calm, calculated demeanonor not only saved me hours of math homework, but also saved himself hundreds of dollars of broken machinery. You see, dad's the kind of guy who reads the instructions. I, on the other hand, tended to force things into place and if they didn't go, I'd smash them with the nearest blunt object. For example, instead of letting me tear the air and oil filter from the old Chevy, he calmly showed me the correct way to use tools. So I would like to thank my father for teaching me how to "unscrew it." <br /><br />Thanks mom and dad; if it weren't for all your screwing, I wouldn't be here.Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15796750753229100085noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35423652.post-48878008868239162352008-09-11T14:17:00.005+12:002008-09-12T15:40:33.476+12:00Camping on Saltspring Island<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/lovezapp/SMfYZPdza_I/AAAAAAAABMk/mocEpVDRf9g/s576/DSC02004.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/lovezapp/SMfYZPdza_I/AAAAAAAABMk/mocEpVDRf9g/s576/DSC02004.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Our friends Anne and Ben invited us to go camping with them on Saltspring Island. They are, for lack of a better term, our besties in Vancouver. I first met Anne when she came to visit us in Wellington last year, and it was she who welcomed us to BC by giving us her spare room until we found an apartment. Anne and her partner Ben are also the proud owners of a 2008 human female named Chloe. So I suppose we went camping with Anne and Ben and Chloe. <br /><br />But this is not a story about Anne and Ben and Chloe. <br /><br />Ami was particularly excited to camp on the island because of the lack of bears. This was before she learned that bears often swam over to the boat docks. In fact, a man was mauled just yesterday. This would be the third time we narrowly missed being attacked by bears. And by "narrowly missed" I mean "we camped in an area where weeks later a bear was sighted." Close call, that one. <br /><br />But this is not a story about bears.<br /><br />The ferry to the islands left from Tsawassen port, southwest of Vancouver. It took just under an hour to cross the Straight of Georgia, weave through the narrows of Mayne Island and Parker Island, and come to rest at the dock between two spits of land where Long Harbor Road comes to a dramatic end. Once off the ferry, Ben drove to the camp site on the southern coast near Beaver Point. <br /><br />The rest is normal camping fare. <br /><br />We took turns cooking: Ami and I made green Thai curry; Anne and Ben whipped up some awesome burritos. In various areas around the campgrounds, there were communal fire pits. We joined one on the first night--when there were still dozens of holiday makers staying on the long weekend--and on the second we made our own. <br /><br />In between bouts of eating (because when you're camping, that's how you measure time) we hiked the length of the small island. There was an historic farm near our campsite, plenty of secluded beaches, and more wildlife than I expected. Once, the forest cleared and we saw that we walked near a small, still lagoon. Grass the color of lion's fur grabbed at our knees. All around us there buzzed dozens of giant dragonflies. They would zoom, hover, and chase each other and seemed to take no notice of us. Indeed, as we walked back into the woods I glanced back to see them continue their confounding aerobatics just as they had done before we got there, and as they would keep doing long after we were gone. <br /><br />There were coffee breaks, brief swims, constellation spotting (that one? That's Sessimadarian. And over there? I think that's Orion's nose.), and even a bottle of champagne. Anne and Ben will be returning to New Zealand soon. We're very happy to have shared this brief moment with them. <br /><br /><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lovezapp/SaltspringIsland#">View more pictures of the trip here</a>.Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15796750753229100085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35423652.post-839661998625491372008-08-26T04:15:00.006+12:002008-08-26T09:41:46.662+12:00Blessings From the Great North American Hamburger<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/lovezapp/SLK7_YG-TII/AAAAAAAABII/lGZoP4u2NdE/DSC01834.JPG?imgmax=720"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/lovezapp/SLK7_YG-TII/AAAAAAAABII/lGZoP4u2NdE/DSC01834.JPG?imgmax=720" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/lovezapp/SLK78QdsXEI/AAAAAAAABH4/GTx0cO4qKAs/DSC01832.JPG?imgmax=576"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/lovezapp/SLK78QdsXEI/AAAAAAAABH4/GTx0cO4qKAs/DSC01832.JPG?imgmax=576" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/lovezapp/SLK7-Kv6AMI/AAAAAAAABIA/Ym4_onvOKec/DSC01833.JPG?imgmax=720"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/lovezapp/SLK7-Kv6AMI/AAAAAAAABIA/Ym4_onvOKec/DSC01833.JPG?imgmax=720" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/lovezapp/SLK8A5Y4PgI/AAAAAAAABIQ/BwIghHb1YU8/DSC01835.JPG?imgmax=720"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/lovezapp/SLK8A5Y4PgI/AAAAAAAABIQ/BwIghHb1YU8/DSC01835.JPG?imgmax=720" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Yesterday, we (Ami, Jess, Jimmy K, Nicole, and I) went out for hamburgers. It was as much for an evening meal as it was a reward. Reward for what, you ask? Well, for one thing Ami and I started a new budget this month, and while I could fill whole megabytes worth of blog space with details, I'll just tell you it's forced us to reduce many of our favorite luxuries to a minimum (vodka, shoes, records) while completely culling other luxuries (lettuce, blankets, electricity). Furthermore, Ami has enjoyed a successful month at work, and I've been training for a marathon. All in all, we deserved a reward; a reward that came in the form of 1/3 lb of organic beef, sauerkraut, onions, cheddar cheese, and bacon. <br /><br />Glory--oh, meaty fist from heaven. Oh, blessed beef chunk, how cradled between the loving, toasted hands of sesame'd bun. What god or goddess do we thank for this juicy grilled glob? Vicious hunger: be vanquished by this mighty meat of valor! <br /><br />And it was so.Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15796750753229100085noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35423652.post-46521608813157365182008-08-08T03:46:00.002+12:002008-08-08T04:26:55.658+12:00Camping at Greendrop Lake<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/lovezapp/SJfEgYp4elI/AAAAAAAABFE/WHN_IkCD5Co/DSC01715.JPG?imgmax=576"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/lovezapp/SJfEgYp4elI/AAAAAAAABFE/WHN_IkCD5Co/DSC01715.JPG?imgmax=576" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Hike time: 3 hours from the road<br /><br />Climb: 365 meters<br /><br />Wildlife: Bears x 1 (heard, not seen), Hummingbirds x 2, Marmot x 1, Chipmunks x 50, Ducks x (aw, who cares about ducks)<br /><br />Injuries: Ami got a splinter that, five days later, I'm still hearing about<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lovezapp/GreendropLake">Have a look at the photos.</a> <br />Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15796750753229100085noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35423652.post-38729620335521862482008-08-02T04:29:00.004+12:002008-08-02T04:55:25.268+12:00Zombies Are Dead. Long Live Zombies!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-f.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v127/163/83/596700252/n596700252_1532933_6373.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px;" src="http://photos-f.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v127/163/83/596700252/n596700252_1532933_6373.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />I love zombies. Well, I love zombie stories. Loving real zombies, even in a Platonic manner, would inevitably lead to heart break (and head break, and leg break, and intestine break). And while <a href="http://www.amazon.com/World-War-Z-History-Zombie/dp/0307346617/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1217608865&sr=1-1">the books</a> and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Walking-Dead-Book/dp/1582406197/ref=pd_bbs_sr_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1217608896&sr=1-2">graphic novels</a> are arguably more entertaining than the movies (I still think the Dawn of the Dead remake and the 28 * Later movies are the best to date, regardless of the "zombies don't run" arguments), I will always grab a zombie flick when we go to the video store, much to Ami's annoyance. But even Ami has to agree that my zombie outfit for Halloween last year was top notch--complete with blood-squirting severed arm (red silly string can wrapped in a shredded dish glove).<br /><br />So when I find people playing with the genre, it fills me with glee. Here are two videos I've found over the past couple of weeks. One is Zombies reading Haiku poetry whilst in the background carnage unfolds. The other is Zombie puppets singing Dust in the Wind. I'm still giggling. <br /><br /><h4>Zombies reading Haiku</h4><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/pd1Ws9QnmZY&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/pd1Ws9QnmZY&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><h4>Zombie Puppets Sing Dust in the Wind</h4><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/I9FlvJX8PLU&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/I9FlvJX8PLU&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15796750753229100085noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35423652.post-15888213465405410862008-08-01T03:53:00.003+12:002008-08-01T04:06:47.086+12:00When God Doesn't Want You to Go Camping . . .<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.cbc.ca/gfx/images/news/photos/2008/07/30/bc-080730-rockslide2-cp.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://www.cbc.ca/gfx/images/news/photos/2008/07/30/bc-080730-rockslide2-cp.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /> . . . she destroys the roads. <br /><br />This weekend, Ami and I were planning to go hiking and camping in Garibaldi lakes, about an hour north of Vancouver. We bought a new tent, new sleeping rolls, new bags; Ami bought new boots--we were set. The weather was going to be perfect: warm and sunny. It was a three-day weekend. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.canada.com/vancouversun/news/story.html?id=4d2f2262-e433-42e4-b27f-a3228f38df3f">And then the mountain collapses</a>. Typical. <br /><br />The Sea-to-Sky Highway (aka hwy 99) is the fastest road north from Vancouver. There is another way, but it detours one hour east, and three hours north; thus turning a 1.5 hour drive into a 4 hour drive. <br /><br />The miracle is that nobody was hurt. Nobody. On a road that just one day previous was backed up with 40,000 people going to an outdoor festival, 24 hours later there simply happened to be nobody around. When 16,000 cubic meters of rock crushed the road and piled up 10 meters, there was one bus carrying one passenger that was hit with one rock. <br /><br />So today and tomorrow we'll be revising our plans and looking for a new place to break in our camping gear.Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15796750753229100085noreply@blogger.com3